A New Diagnosis

When I got to Dr. Oliver’s for my session the next week, he seemed kinda excited as he escorted me from the waiting room to his office.

“I think I need to change your diagnosis,” he said, even before I sat down. “I did some more research into cases like yours, and I’m now pretty sure that it’s not depression you’re dealing with. Or, rather, you are, but it’s the result of something else.”

So much for Luke, Joyce and Keaton thinking they were so smart for thinking I was depressed.

“So what is wrong with me?,” I asked.

“Well, Hunter…my professional opinion is that you’ve got a nasty case of PTSD as a result of the sexual harassment accusations you had to go through last summer. That’s post-traumatic stress disorder.”

“I know what it is,” I said, “only doesn’t it happen to Vietnam vets…and not to pretty boys who get accused of something they didn’t do?”

“It happens a lot more than you think.”

“But don’t you have to have flashbacks for it to be PTSD? I don’t have those. At least I don’t think I do.”

“No, but you do have emotional distress when you’re reminded about the trauma. And what’s called physical reactivity after exposure to traumatic reminders.”

“Huh?”

“You should have seen yourself as you were telling me the story.  You were literally writhing in the chair, and you usually sit pretty still and relaxed. That’s what made me suspect PTSD in the first place. Trust me, there’s enough evidence to warrant a diagnosis of PTSD. Sorry I had us on the wrong track for a while.”

“Ok…let’s say it is PTSD. Is there a cure?”

He looked at me and raised one eyebrow. I was never able to do that.

“I wish that I could say there was some magic pill or something, but there really isn’t.”

“I don’t want medication anyway.”

“You could ask your doctor for something to help you sleep.”

“I definitely don’t want that. I’d rather have an extra beer at bedtime. Or some gayass herbal tea.” Joyce and Belen have both been saying I should have a chamomile tea before bed for months. “As it is, Robert had me do a drug test yesterday.”

“He what?,” Dr. Oliver asked, pretty horrified.

“It’s cool,” I said. “They thought I was using drugs and that’s why I wasn’t able to get out of bed in the morning. I guess they reckoned that Hollywood and such fame as I’ve got went to my head. I’ve never done anything stronger than weed, and even that I don’t like. And I never touched PEDs – performance enhancing drugs, steroids and shit – when I was playing ball. I’ve taken plenty of drug tests in my life, so it wasn’t that big of a deal when Robert asked me to take one. What’s the treatment for PTSD?,” I asked, getting us back on topic.

“Psychotherapy. What we’ve been doing, only now that we’ve found the underlying cause for your depression, we can concentrate on that.”  

“Well…,” Keaton said when I told him of my new diagnosis, “that sounds less gayass than being depressed.”

‘This is serious, man.”

“I know it is. You didn’t even tell me to go fuck myself.” He smirked, so I did give him the two-word answer after all.

“You did go through a ton of shit this summer,” Keaton then said. “And it was bound to impact you someway. We were all glad you seemed to get over it so quickly, but Joyce in particular thought that that wasn’t exactly normal for you not to be bothered by something that big.”

“I thought I was happy-go-lucky,” I said. “Now, I’m not so sure.”

“Bubba, you can be happy-to-lucky and still be affected by something as major as a fuckin bitch who tried to ruin your life – and almost succeeded. Maybe you’re only just realizing how narrow an escape you had. If we hadn’t found Bryce, things probably would have gone against you, seeing as it was her word against yours…and they usually believe the woman in situations like that.”

“Yeah…I guess…”

“No ‘I guess’, bubba,” said Keaton, looking me even more straight in the eye than he usually does. “It’s real. And you’ve got the psychological scars to prove it, don’t you? Besides, all the therapy you’ve gotten for depression didn’t seem to help much, did it? The more I think about you having PTSD, the more sense it makes.”

Joyce agreed with Keaton. She didn’t say that she’d guessed it entirely, but she told me she did have a feeling that what was going on with me might have to do with what went down over the summer.

I also had a long talk with Travis.

“I don’t have it,” he said, referring to my new diagnosis, “but I’ve met plenty of people who do.  It often results from sexual trauma of some sort…you don’t need to have been in combat to have PTSD. And you went through a lot. I thought you were taking it super well at the time. I’d have been a mess if some evil chick was trying to do what that bitch was trying to do to you.”

“How come no one said anything at the time?,” I asked. “Truth is, I don’t even remember it all that clearly, let alone how I felt during most of it. I do remember her looking up my shorts that morning. That was so creepy, man. And I remember her coming onto me the first time by the pool. I guess I should go back and see what I wrote in the blog. And maybe get a copy of my deposition from Matt…although I don’t want to remember it any more than I already do. You can’t imagine what it feels like to have some chick look up your shorts while you’re working out…and then saying…” I physically shuddered at the recollection. It was the first time I caught myself having a physical manifestation – or whatever Dr. Oliver said it was called.

Travis didn’t miss it either.

“See?”

“Ok, maybe I do see. Am I going to have to relive the whole experience with Dr. Oliver? Can’t he just read the blog?”

“I think the point is that you have to talk about it, not that he find out the whole story on his own.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Hunter, psychotherapy isn’t rocket science. It’s barely science of any kind. You just go and talk. If you’re lucky, your therapist will say something useful.” He laughed. “Just be honest and open, especially about what we can now call your trauma.”

“That makes it sound like gayass drama.”

“It’s not drama. It’s your life. You want it back, don’t you? Or do you want that woman to control you for the rest of your living days?”

“When you put it that way…”

“Yes?”

“Well, when you put it that way, it makes it sound like I do need to get over it. Getting fired was too good for her. She deserves to be out on the fuckin street with a sign that reads ‘will manage TV projects for food’ or some shit like that.”

“Remember that anger and share it with your therapist. You never really got angry about the harassment and accusations, did you?”

“I don’t usually get angry about shit,” I said, honestly. “It’s just not part of who I am. I’ve never put my fist through a wall like I once saw Keaton do.”

“Maybe it’d do you good. Or at least take it out at your next boxing class. Your coach – what’s his name? El León or something?”

“El Tigre,” I said with a laugh. “Maybe I should stick a picture of her on the heavy bag and then beat the stuffing out of it.”

“That’s the spirit.” Then he got a little more serious. “You can get through this, man. I know you. I’ve seen you play ball. Anybody who hates losing as much as you do can beat a lameass case of PTSD because some evil woman fucked with him. Now,” he continued, “you wanna go to Afters and ruin your six-pack?”

“Fuck you, man,” I said, clapping Travis on the back. He was definitely the right person to turn to. “If the V-shred dude can say he eats donuts, I can have one with ice cream. He’s actually right about one thing: it’s not about not eating carbs.”

So we got into Travis’ car and drove to Afters, a place on Green in Pasadena that specializes in fresh donuts cut in half and filled with ice cream. I’ll admit I don’t go there very often, but it is a favorite of Travis’ (and a lot of people who go to PCC), and, yeah, a fresh donut filled with ice cream is fuckin bomb.

After the ice cream, we drove back to Travis’ so I could pick up the shitbox and drive home so I could get the Maybach so I could pick the boys up after school. Jacob had another little league game and, after leaving Matteo off at the house, I took him to the field where they were playing. I’m kinda pleased with how popular I am with Jacob’s teammates. Most of them are pretty impressed that I played pro ball for a year, but what they really like is that, since I started working with kids, I’ve become dang good at analyzing someone’s swing and can give good practical advice. The team’s coach is cool with me helping out, which is awesome. I’m still super careful not to step on his toes. I’ve even bitten my tongue a few times when he’s given what I think is the wrong advice to one of the kids. I never contradicted a coach during my whole career playing, and I’m not about to start now.

It was a good game (Jacob’s team won; he homered), and we were all in a good mood afterwards. I’d of been glad to invite the whole team for ice cream to celebrate, but this isn’t Tennessee anymore, and there are a lot of kids whose parents say they’re lactose intolerant. I did get to take Jacob and his two best buddies to Baskin Robbins, though. (I had a butter pecan cone. I thought it was a good sign that I wanted ice cream twice in one day. I’d kind of been losing my taste for it, if you can believe that.)

I really enjoyed the game. It felt good being involved in baseball and getting to think about something other than having PTSD. I felt good for the rest of the evening, watched a Dodger game, had my one beer for the day, and got into bed…where I couldn’t fall asleep again. I remember from my psych class back in college that, when you go through psychoanalysis, when the analyst figures out what’s wrong with you, everything’s supposed to fall into place and you’ll be cured (or something like that.) Well…so much for Dr. Freud. We’ve established what’s wrong with me, and why…and I still couldn’t fall asleep. And I still couldn’t get up the next morning. If y’all can believe it, I was depressed because I had PTSD and that evil woman had messed with my mind…and I was pissed off at myself for letting her get that much control over me.